Amateur Hands

I’m nowhere near finished with grading
the poems when I lock up my room for the night.

It’s almost eleven. Somewhere another
door slams. The space between lockers

swells with a draft whose source is unknown.
It carries the scent of hot Cheetos,

too much berry perfume, the liberal splashes
as common as nicks on the Adam’s

apple from a razor in amateur hands.
At the end of the hallway the janitor waves,

moonwalks away with his mop, tangoing
with its handle under the flickering halogens,

its head thrashing back & forth like the tail
of a fish that swims too deep to be named.